


Iron Bell

by scrapbullet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-22
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, all of this, it’s just one road. One path." On the eve of his death, one man receives a rare gift; the opportunity to see what once could have been, and now never shall be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron Bell

**Author's Note:**

> Remix of the_me09's A Midday Stroll/A Perfect Christmas. ♥ I hope this does your fic(s) justice, sweetheart. Lyric courtesy of Pink Floyd.

“You know, all of this, it’s just one road. One path,” she says, and her eyes glitter with a dark amusement that is pure _Henry_ , almost devious in its intensity, “there are so many more, so many where you succeed.”

Coward cocks a brow, bored. His cell is cold and damp and the chill permeates the fragile flesh and seeps into his bones, causing his limbs to tremble and shake, though he says not a word in complaint. That just wouldn’t do. “Oh?”

She nods, crawling across the dirty floor to rest her chin on his knee. “Mhm! Would you like to see?” Joy spreads across her translucent face and she clutches at his shirt with a vehemence that a lady of her age and obvious stature should not possess. “Would you like to see what could have been, and what now never shall be?”

Indecision makes him pause, but his heart is a traitor. It thumps wildly in his chest, a steady beat of _Hen-ry, Hen-ry_ and it must show, it must do, for she smiles widely, satisfied.

-

The sun is warm on his face. It’s been a long time since he’s felt it, months even, and it’s a welcome change to the frigid touch of winter. The girl, his apparition in a dress of mourning, clutches his hand and nudges him forth; onto the path of a garden, of lush green and sweet smelling flowers. “Where are we?”

“Home,” she says simply, and for a moment her body seems to flicker, indecisive.

“And home is...?”

Coward’s heart jumps into his throat. It stays there, shuddering, and the world seems to tip sideways as Henry – rumpled and red cheeked but undoubtedly _alive_ \- catches him as he falls.

“Where _he_ is,” she answers, inclining her head.

 _Good Lord... she looks so much like Henry_.

“You should be more careful in your condition,” Henry says, and Coward blinks, wondering if he has truly gone mad. Henry’s fingers are warm against his face, warm and loving and it’s like burning, like the taste of bitter ash on his tongue because, because –

 _Because Henry is dead_.

He has to remember that. He has to, lest this excursion into insanity become his reality. Henry is dead and buried and there is naught for Coward to do but mourn and sit in wait, wait for the day when the noose will tighten around his neck and choke the very life out of him. Henry is dead. Henry is dead and that’s all there is to it.

A sob threatens to crawl its way out of his chest and Henry frowns, his face drawing down into an expression of concentration. “More tears, Nicholas? Your hormones are more addled than I first thought- perhaps I should take you to see the physician.”

And yet, this all feels so very _real_. But how? How could this possibly be?

“That’s because it is,” the girl scowls, hands on her hips. It appears that Henry can’t see her for he’s nary even looked at her and thus Coward ignores her in favour of his lover’s arms, arms that lift him onto his feet, supports him, guides him. “It is real!” She repeats, and hurries to walk in sync with them as they trek up the path to-

To Buckingham Palace.

“This is what could have been, if you’d won. King Blackwood and his Prince Consort!” Her laughter is brighter than sunshine, high and feminine and just a tiny bit unhinged but it’s enough, more than enough, for envy to settle in his gut like a parasite. Could have been. Might have been. What never shall be.

“Oh you, cheer up! Live in the now! It’s not like you’re dying-” she claps her hand over her mouth, amused, “oh, I’m so sorry! Tomorrow, yes? Tomorrow, and the bittersweet embrace of the gallows. More’s the pity.”

Coward’s head hurts. Like a drum resounding in his skull he grimaces with every beat, expecting with each and every step to wake up from this dream, this hallucination. And yet, it is exactly as his apparition says; real. From the warmth of the sun on his face to the subtle cologne that Henry wears – but only in summer, when the heat draws out the rich and spicy undertones – and he has to take a steady breath lest the implications of this gift cause him to faint.

Behind them the girl snorts, ungraceful. Coward ignores her and she, quite predictably, huffs in response. “Fair enough, I’ll leave you to it then. I’m sure you have much to catch up on.” Coward flushes red, the insinuation all too apparent.

Youth today. No manners whatsoever.

Once within the cool confines of a room lavishly decorated, Coward brushes aside Henry’s probing hands. Really, the hovering is entirely against character and he bristles, like an irritated feline. “I’m fine, Henry-”

Henry scowls as he ushers Coward into a chair. “As we’re both aware, Nicholas, you know nothing of your own limits.”

Oh for Christ sake.

“I’m _fine_ , and really, I don’t want to argue with you. Not now, not like this.” Henry’s very presence is a temptation, and his hands shake as they rest on Henry’s hips to draw him close. It’s so very easy to bury his face in his stomach, to breathe him in, to allow the rich scent and the warmth of his body to ground him, except, Lord, the desire within is simply too strong. Coward trembles, fresh tears stinging his eyes. “I missed you.”

Sighing Henry palms the back of Coward’s head. “I was gone for no less than two weeks, Nicholas.”

Two weeks? Feels like a lifetime.

“Nevertheless,” Coward murmurs, and Henry tilts his head back to brush away his tears, “it is two weeks too many.”

Is this a gift, or torture? To lose the love ones future to death, to ruin, only to be granted this reprieve... the mind is an intricate organ indeed, if it is capable of giving him this. He doubts. How can he not? Popping open the buttons of Henry’s waistcoat and shirt he ignores the somewhat shocked exhale in favour of simple touch, spanning his fingers across flesh imbued with life, rising and falling with each and every breath. Curling his fingers through the soft trail of dark hair below the navel his mouth waters, and when he presses a kiss to Henry’s hip he savours the faint tang of salt on his tongue.

How can this _not_ be real?

Henry hums as he kneels, amused, and cups Coward’s cheeks in both hands. “Two weeks without you, however did I manage?”

The kiss is inevitable. It’s fierce, a rough slip-slide of tongue and lips with bruising force. Born of desperation he all but throws himself at a laughing Henry, pushing him onto the floor and straddling his hips, basking in the knowledge that - to hell with it - there is the here and the now and Henry’s teeth sinking into his shoulder is all that matters. Is absolute _nirvana_.

It takes little to ignite that insatiable fire within. Blood rushes south and he’s dizzy, off balance, overcome with primal need.

No words. No need. All they require is in the nature of nimble fingers discarding clothes with practised ease. Coward lingers, presses kisses warm and wet to the arc of Henry’s throat, but Henry has never been one to be placid. Rolling Coward underneath him Henry pins his lover down, ensnaring wrists in a tight grip and _grinds_ , pleasure apparent in the tight lines of his face.

Coward moans and the entire world condenses into this, this single moment. It is a pressure so potent he can barely breathe, his body reacting from sense-memory, rising to meet each thrust of Henry’s hips. Arousal pools in his gut so heady he can almost taste it, hovering just out of his reach. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he’s brought to that edge, fingers clutching Henry’s shoulders as their bodies collide, lost in sensation.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Henry’s voice is sultry as he takes Coward’s earlobe between his teeth and bites, bites _hard_ “you’re gagging for it, aren’t you?” and he’s lost, done for. It’s too much to bear, the sweet friction and the fire that rages in the flesh. He’s so close he can almost taste it-

Agile fingers clamp down on the base of his cock as she shudders, chest heaving. It draws him away from the blessed brink and Coward glares, utterly indignant, pupils blown.

“Not yet, my dear,” Henry murmurs, smug.

The rapture is a bewitching thing, as is his Henry. Long, elegant fingers make quick work of removing the remainder of their clothing, and his touch is a soothing balm. Here, like this, it is all too easy to forget. All too easy to block out the image of his love with death upon him like a shroud. All too easy.

“Tell me what you need. Beg for it." Henry says breathlessly, and his pristine nails scrape against the weeping head, delighting in the moan it tears from Coward. "I may or may not take pity on you."

He can't suck in air quick enough, lost in the fragile meat of his own body and Henry knows it, knows it all too well. Knows that if he pushes his thumb underneath just right Coward will keen, wanton, knows that if he scores Coward’s thighs with his nails they'll twitch, oversensitive. "I want you. Your mouth. Your body." He shudders, shameless. “Your cock.”

Henry's eyes are black and hooded.

"You haven't done much to warrant it," he says, and his hand dips lower, twists the heavy sack until the pain is too much, too great. Too wonderful. "What will you do if I let you climax, Nicholas? Hm?”

Anything. Oh, _anything_.

It’s written all over his face, it must be, for Henry is a veritable demon, working oil-slick fingers into Coward’s arse with salacious intent. The ache blooms, but it is familiar, an old friend, and he eases into it, the stretch and burn. Two fingers twist and scissor, fucking in too slow and shallow to be anything more than simple, methodical preparation and Coward shoves his hips back in a desperate bid for more.

Laughing, Henry sucks a bruise into the taut, twitching muscle of his shoulder. “Patience.”

“You tease me,” Coward keens, throat bared. Two becomes three becomes none at all and he gasps in complaint, shocked at such loss.

“Don’t you want to play this game with me, Nicholas?” Henry asks, pressing his now slick cock tantalisingly against the puckered entrance of his lover’s body. “Because if you don’t-”

The snarl that passes Coward’s lips is answer enough. “Just fuck me already.”

He burns. There is a flame alight in his flesh and Henry is fanning it, stroking into his body slow and even, expression closed in concentration. It’s a beautiful sight, makes Coward ache with a desire so strong that for a moment he can barely breathe for wanting. This... this is more than he could have ever hoped for.

 _Catharsis_.

The pressure in his arse waxes with every inch and once in, all the way in, Henry exhales heavily, shakily, and Coward falls that little bit further in love. Cupping Henry’s cheeks he kisses him, bruising, all but marking his territory.

This may very well be the last chance he has, after all.

Devilish fingers skim behind his knees and Coward whimpers audibly, his cock twitching in obvious interest before his legs are hooked around Henry’s waist, tightening of their own accord. The ache is a low heat in his belly; a sensation that leaves him reeling. Henry pauses for but a moment, his breath hot and damp on his cheek. “ _Move_.”

He does.

It isn’t gentle or graceful, it never is. It is a harsh meeting of bodies, of Henry gripping Coward’s hips so hard they bruise, ramming home to the sound of enraptured screams. It is passion and love and hatred; that thin line they walk with apparent ease and they are lost to it, as they always are, pressed so close together that they are one.

The friction is almost too much for him to bear. His climax hovers out of his reach as Henry fucks into him and bites into the meat of his shoulder once more, hissing as the pain only enhances the pleasure, blood welling, anointing. It stains Henry’s mouth crimson and when they kiss he bites it, those lips painted red, his teeth sinking into vulnerable flesh. His own little punishment.

Rough fingers stroke and press in to the sensitive flesh of his naval and Coward’s breath hitches, whines as a hand wraps around his weeping cock and strips from base to tip. Henry is relentless, each thrust as delicious as the one before, pushing him closer and closer to the precipice.

Henry roars out his release and Coward comes soon after, drowning.

-

Henry’s palm spans his stomach, slick with sweat and seed. “I will have the physician come to you this evening,” he says. “Your health must be monitored at all times, lest the child be lost.” Coward knows well the sound of satisfaction in his lovers voice and he stills, confused.

Child?

Only now does he take note of the faint swell of his abdomen.

-

“Father bought me a horse once,” she says wistfully as she sprawls casually on a chaise lounge, as if she hadn’t walked in two seconds away from catching he and Henry _in flagrante delicto_. “It was a lovely beast, really, best Christmas present I ever had.”

Coward hums, too boneless to care. “Little girls should be seen and not heard.”

“Hah.” Scoffing she pops a bon bon into her mouth with a flourish. “I got away with blue murder. Still do.”

With an exaggerated sigh Coward buries his face into Henry’s chest – a Henry that slumbers, face slack and restful – and wonders how on earth they managed to create such a wilful child. It isn’t any stretch of the imagination to believe that this apparition is the very same babe that grows within his belly - though the how and why certainly escapes him, leaves him feeling undoubtedly sick to his stomach, but Henry has always took his own counsel - for she is just as he would have imagined Henry to have been as a child. “What did we name you?”

“Lillian.”

Something twists deep in Coward’s gut. “That’s... that’s a lovely name.”

Lillian shrugs. “What’s in a name?”

Indeed.

“Besides!” Swinging her legs round to plant firmly on solid ground Lillian smiles, devious, “who’s to say the demon spawn growing in your belly is even me? Different paths, different universes daddy dearest. Might be a boy. Might even be twins. Who knows? Not that it matters, anyway. It’s not like you’re staying.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Rolling her eyes Lillian slides onto the floor and absent mindedly tosses a shirt at him, to preserve his _delicate_ modesty. “Do you have any idea how much trouble I’m going to be in when they find out I did this? That I gave you this? It’s more than what _he_ got when he died.”

Coward scowls, and opens his mouth as if to speak-

“No.”

The world dissolves around him, and Coward despairs.

 _far away  
across the field  
tolling on the iron bell  
calls the faithful to their knees  
to hear the softly spoken magic spell..._


End file.
